"That is only the initial letter, the others will be much smaller."
"Read aloud then what you are writing."
Apafi wrote with a trembling hand and read: "Whereas—"
The Pasha furiously tore away the parchment and roared at him.
"Plague take all your whereases and inasmuch-ases! Why all this beating about the bush? Write the usual formula—'We, Michael Apafi, Prince of Transylvania, command you, wretched slaves, by these presents, to appear incontinently before us at Kis-Selyk, under pain of death.'"
Apafi was brought almost to his wits' ends before he could make the Pasha comprehend that it was not usual to correspond in this style with free Hungarian noblemen. At last the Pasha allowed him to write his letter in his own way, but took care that its purport should be emphatic and dictatorial. As soon as Apafi had written the letters, Ali Pasha put a Ciaus on horseback, and sent him off at full speed to all those to whom the writ was addressed.
"And now," said Apafi to himself, sighing deeply as he wiped his pen, "and now I should like to see the man who could tell me what will come of it all!"
"Till the Diet assembles," said the Pasha, "you will remain here as my guest."
"Cannot I go home then to my wife and child?" asked Apafi, with a beating heart.
"To give us the slip, eh? A likely tale. That is always the way with you Hungarian nobles. Those we won't have at any price are always dangling about our necks, and begging and praying for the princely diadem; and those we would place on the throne take to their heels as if we were going to impale them." And with that the Pasha assigned Apafi a tent and dismissed him, at the same time giving secret but strict orders to the guard of honour stationed at the door of the new Prince, not to lose sight of him for an instant.